Fear death?to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face. . . . . . . . No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, The heroes of old; Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad lifes arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold.
Its wiser being good than bad; Its safer being meek than fierce; Its fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That after Last returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched; That what began best cant end worst, Nor what God blessed once prove accurst.
Apparent Failure. vii.
Note 1. A. C. Swinburne: A Ballad of François Villon;
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brothers name. [back]